The Singing Sea
by The Egg and I
Summary: SherlockHet! Challenge for MyLittleChickadee. Set post-richenbach-resolution; Irene Adler arranges a Rendezvous with Sherlock to address some Unfinished business. Irene/Sherlock with mentions of Irene/OC, John/OC. Light BDSM, Humiliation, Femdom. Please read and review!
1. The talking Trees

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters-nor do I own any of the music in the playlist below. Both are intended for your entertainment pleasure. Please enjoy and REVEIW!

{ /playlist/I+Am+Sher+Locked/80842397 -accompanying playlist }

-

Sherlock was not quite yet awake, sitting on the only sofa in 221b Baker St. that was out of arm's reach of somethign to throw.

John had been playing some estoteric jazz record for the better part of the morning-and while sherlock had nothing against jazz music of any kind; he'd slept like rubbish thenight before, and John hadn't brought him his pungent cup of assam and breakfast yet this morning. In short, NOISE BAD, QUIET GOOD was all the maestro's magnificent brain could fit together at that moment.

"Ah yes!" John sighed, carefully balancing a tea tray replete with various goodies on his way to where Sherlock sat on the couch.

"The sleeper has awoken!"

Sherlock offered only a grunt and furrowed brow for response.

"Don't get yer knickers in a knot-tea is served your majesty!" John groused as he poured his friend and flatmate a hot cuppa.

The needle gently skipped into the next track; Sherlock sipped his tea with a dour expression as saxophone whined from the speakers of the ancient record player in the corner. Above their melancholy moan; the hiss of hi hat and the molasses thickness of a woman's voice which sang:

/The Singing Sea  
The talking Trees  
Are silent in a noisy way...  
The stars are bright, but shed no light  
The world spins backwards every day.../

"What on earth are we listening to John?" Sherlock finally spoke; his tone was not unlike that of a petulant teenager.

"Not to mention that it's far too early in the day for whatever it may be!"

John's mouth pressed into a thin, flat line.

"Quarter past ten in the morning is not 'early' Sherlock, not to mention the record is a gift for you." John fished around in his pocket a moment before producing a small yellow slip of paper.

"I signed for it this morning. It was addressed to the flat, but when I opened it-this was inside." John handed the little slip to Sherlock, upon which simple typeface read:

Mr. Holmes,  
I hope you find the record stimulating.

Sherlock launched himself from the couch most suddenly-beginning his feverish pacing of the salon in a flourish of blankets; his tea sloshing like a typhoon over the edges of his cup as he went.

John sat forward in his seat, examining his eccentric comrade.

"Any idea who sent it?"

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks and gave John an enormous (if not a bit eerie) grin.

"I already know who sent it John. Isn't it obvious!? What I have not yet deduced is why, why send the record? What's so special about the record!?"

John stared back at Sherlock with a look betwixt incredulity and expectation.

"Honestly John, you don't know?"

John rolled his eyes.

"How long have you been this inattentive?"

"Dunno, how long have you been such a prat?" John quipped back.

"Ms. Irene Adler my dear Watson!" Sherlock hadn't bothered to hide his excitement.

John's face fell.

"Sherlock...I'm afraid that's just not possible." He asserted.

Thinking back to how he'd taken the news of Ms. Adler's 'death' the first time around; John feared how Sherlock might react now-not just to that blow, but the added pain of John's deception.

"Oh?" Sherlock had ceased his pacing and had begun inspecting the record's liner notes. "How's that?"

John took a deep breath.

"Because...because I lied to you Sherlock, I lied to you about-"

"Please John-I know about the little white 'witness protection program' lie my brother made you tell to spare my 'delicate feelings'." Sherlock stated flatly, John's mouth almost comically ajar.

"Miss Adler is very much alive, and now apparently in the habit of sending musical calling cards."

John moved quickly past pity and guilt onto anger and fury. Blood rushed to his face. Without a word he began clearing away the tea tray, making sure to snatch Sherlock's still warm cup from his grasp.

Too obdurate to tend to his flustered partner, Sherlock instead moved to the turntable, adjusting the needle back a few hairs widths to repeat the track that had been playing moments ago:

(Play Track "The Singing Sea")  
/The Singing Sea  
The talking Trees  
Are silent in a noisy way...  
The stars are bright, but shed no light  
The world spins backwards every day...  
A Rainbow Rat  
A Checkered Cat  
Go tail in tail along the road...

The mouse is pleased , the moon is cheese

The sun is shining hot and cold

A Golden Bird  
Today I heard  
Sitting upon a silver branch

His little song was very long...

Which made me sad and start to laugh

My brother she  
My Sister he  
But there is only me in the family

When I grow up oh I'll go down...

The river to the Singing Sea /

"Complete and utter nonsense words!" John complained once the song had finsihed.

Sherlock payed him no mind-just sat staring, fingers laced beneath his nose.

"Not going to share are we?" John snapped. "I can never shut you up, but one record from Irene Adler-A 'DEAD WOMAN', and you can't manage a single syllable on how she's managed to send you a parcel from the afterlife."

"More like Seychelles..." Sherlock sighed, only feuling John's rage.

"BUT MYCROFT TOLD ME SHE WAS-"

:KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK:

The two paused their small domestic spat to answer the door. Mrs. hudson appeared in the open doorway-a satisfied smile on her aged face.

"Wot a charming girl you've found yo'self this time Jawn!" She chimed.

"She's waitin' on you downstairs luv!" She assured them, before shuffling off toward her own flat.

John and Sherlock looked at each other with suspicion.

"Did you start wooing that vapid yoga instructor with the little dogs?"  
Sherlock's query was dripping with disgust.

"No." John replied, wounded-prompting both men to peek out of their flat at the leggy, Bardot-esque twenty-something at the bottom of the stairs.

At that precise moment Sherlock's phone erupted with a lewd

UNGH!

John's nose twitched.

"well, go on! What'd she text you?" he urged.

"There's no mistaking that ringtone."

If sherlock hadn't known any better he might've thought John was jealous.

::I thought John might keep Lana company::

UNGH!

:: American girl. LOVES veterans 3 ::

The young woman sauntered up the stairs in a cap-sleeve peplum dress the color of cotton candy and skyscraper tall Zanotti stilettos that Sherlock recognized as part of Ms. Adler's extensive wardrobe. Irene did have a tendency to lend out pieces to her favorite protegee-du-jour.  
Sherlock sniffed the air; although the body chemistry was different, he could still tell it was equal parts Coco Mademoiselle and Ms. Dior Cherie; Irene's signature designer scent cocktail.

The girl was young, but not too young to be under the maribou-fringe-peignoir-wing of Ms. Adler. Her strawberry brown bouffant was perfectly coiffed;a Wilma Flintsone-sized string of pearls adorning her giraffe-slender neck.

John was making a valiant effort to secure his eyes safely within his skull once more when the young woman spoke:

"John?" Her sparkling blue bambi eyes fixed on Watson-the good Doctor had hardly noticed she was sporting an American accent.

"Do you want to change before we go to lunch? " She batted mascara lashes nonchalantly.

John looked from 'Lana' to Sherlock-then back again.

/UNGH!/  
::He really should change, she made reservations at Marilave and that Jumper is shabby:::

Sherlock read the message with a smirk. John watched on, squirming with obvious anxiety.

"John, go get changed. Ms. Adler's been kind enough to consider your previous 'third wheel' complaints. Lana is here to bring you to lunch."

John smiled politely at the beautiful woman standing in their parlor-blithely clasping her bedazzled designer clutch in her sorbet-hue manicured fingers-then briskly swept Sherlock into the Kitchen for a quick tete-a-tete.

"Sherlock, tell me what is going on here!"

Sherlock's beaming visage hardened slightly-his mouth downturned into it's more typical horizontal trajectory.

"Not yet, John-I have to be certain myself before I tell you. But you'll be safe with Lana-and no doubt given your proclivities for big lips, busts, and American girls; quite entertained. "

"So you want me to go have a lunch date with one of Ms. Adler's high-end Prostitute playthings at one of the most posh gastronomic establishments in Britain while you may or may not be out getting yourself into trouble with a Megalomaniac Dominatrix." John snorted.

"Well, John-I expect you to change first."

There was a well placed Silence as John and Sherlock stared each other down.

"Fine!" It was John who finally spoke.

"But we're not going to Marileve." He announced in a voice loud enough for Lana to hear in the parlor.

Sherlock smiled, John rolled his eyes.

"I hope you like chips and curry Lana!" John called, making his way into the parlor.


	2. Rainbow Rat & Checkered Cat

NOTE: Apparently doesn't like when I try to type any URL or web address into a document-so if you're interested in the playlist that accompanies this story-please go to Grooveshark DOT com-and search for the playlist "I Am SHERLocked" by EveGatsby or something of that nature. If you can't find it-and are REALLY interested, PM me and I'll hook you up. Otherwise-ENJOY and please REVIEW!

As soon as John left the apartment Sherlock commandeered his laptop to search the record that Irene had sent-specifically the only song with vocals, which had appeared significant: "The Singing Sea".

The lyrics, if internet sources were to be believed, had no significance-having been nonsense words strung together by a foreign lyricist composing an english language Jazz piece: no clues there.

The title? Britain was surrounded by the Sea-but a singing sea? No.

What about the artist? The composer and vocalist were both female. The vocalist ; Brooklyn born jazz singer Tulivu-Donna Cumberbatch-the daughter of jazz saxophone player Harold Cumbertbach. No Connection.

Sherlock looked out the window-searching for another thought trigger: A store front sign.

How rare is the record? Do many brick and mortar shops carry it?

Sherlock searched for shops nearby who had a print of the record in their store's inventory.

Nothing in a 5 mile radius, but what about 10?

Sherlock adjusted the search criteria.

Sure enough, an establishment called Duke of Earl records claimed to have a copy in stock.

Armed with his aged raincoat, and favorite weather treated oxfords (bless Mrs. Hudson for doing it every year) -Sherlock set out for the record shop.

-  
The reindeer bells on the front entrance to the shop sang with a  
ting-a-ling! as Sherlock entered the near empty shop.

In the center of the store was a turntable-spinning slowly with a shiny, black disc swirling hypnotically beneath the needle.

(Play Track "Farewell Blues")

Though he didn't have the benefit of the lyrics, and it was obviously another recording-Sherlock could recognize the melody of the track in question.

It was in this way that he knew: when he turned around to face the door which he had just arrived through-Ms Irene Adler would be standing behind him.

Ever wanting to have the upper hand, he did not turn, but Simply texted the word "Hello" to Irene's mobile.

/CRACK!/

There was the sound of a riding-crop hitting flesh muffled by the plush lining of a coat pocket directly behind him.

Sherlock turned to face her. Her eminence, the queen of ice, Irene Adler.

She looked fresher, brighter than the last time he'd seen her. Her onyx locks were set into gentle waves, her lips freshly painted in hot vermillion.

"Miss me?" She smiled sweetly.

"Asking questions you already know the answer to: did you not once scold me for the same folly?" His tone was cold, like usual.

Irene gave a little laugh, drifting past Sherlock toward the turntable.

"Did you like the record?" she undid the belt on her slate raincoat-sliding it down off of her shoulders and tossing it over the empty counter.

Sherlock watched as she walked away. He'd known very little about women's calculating ways to get men's attention. It had only been after he'd attempted to contact Ms. Adler under the false name of Zelda Zonk, (Marilyn Monroe's sometimes pseudonym) at a hotel in Zurich during his Reichenbach "sabbatical" -that he'd been prompted to do a bit of extra research.

Much like Marilyn-Sherlock noticed now that the heels of Irene's black patent Laboutins had been deliberately shortened by one quarter of an inch on only the right side-causing her ass to grind against itself beneath her champagne silk wiggle dress as she walked.

Sherlock knew that she could feel his eyes on her-so he adjusted himself accordingly-forcing himself to fix his gaze once more upon her glacier-like eyes.

"I didn't find it un-enjoyable." He kept his voice level-but he could hear his own heartbeat in his ears.

Curious. I didn't realize the physiological reaction would be this strong.

Irene turned the music up a bit louder.

"Shopkeeper might make a fuss if you keep touching his demo display." Sherlock challenged

"She won't care." Irene smirked, closing the distance between them.

Sherlock raised a brow.

"Gorgeous little ginger American Bird-looks like a trailer-park Bridgette Bardot. She was quite above average in 'the sack' as it were-so I brought her home from Los Angeles with me."

Irene gave a beat of silence let that one sink in.

"She happens to be having lunch with a ruggedly handsome ex-military Doctor presently. " She smoothed her hands over Sherlock's lapels-and almost cooing when he flinched at her touch.

"Lucky girl." Sherlock managed through gritted teeth.

Irene laughed-sliding her hands up over his shoulders, moving to rest her head on his chest.

"Last time you were a vicar with a bleeding face, this time you're a self-employed, cold , and composed consulting detective with no interest in seeing me again. Both were poor attempts to disguise the truth."

She guided his long, gnarled fingers to her waist -then slid her thumbs up the fold of his lapels;knotting her fingers at the nape of his neck.

Sherlock forced a dramatic sigh.

"I'll bite, what precisely is it that I am alleged to be concealing?"

Irene's fingers unwound themselves, helping Sherlock's overcoat free from his shoulders.

"Oh darling," she crooned "I never said you were hiding anything."

Her painted lips curled with a delicious malice.

"It's written all over that pretty, wan face of yours; just how badly you're pretending."

Though he still had his oxford, vest and jacket on Sherlock felt nearly nude and extremely prone in such close proximity to another human being. Despite this deep, instinctive dread-there was exhilaration too.

She ran her slender hands down the sides of his ribcage-Sherlock bristled visibly and Irene couldn't help but laugh.

"Jim never understood how right he'd gotten it."

Sherlock's blood ran cold-but unlike any time in memory; he could neither will his feet to carry him away, nor force his tongue to tame her by way of rapier wit. He simply remained rooted to the floor in silence.

Irene brought her face to the soft flesh of his neck ; her lips a whisper away from the skin above the carotid artery. Unable to bear such closeness, Sherlock closed his eyes and held his breath.

"The Virgin."

As she made the 'V' sound with her mouth -her lips grazed his neck; sending a shudder throughout his entire body-which, despite his best efforts, had not been minimized by his slipping control of expression.

"And what does that make you?" Sherlock challenged with a quavering voice, desperate to regain control of the situation.

"I thought you were the detective Mr. Holmes." She gave a gentle nip to the same spot with her titanium-white incisors.

Sherlock made a bid to swallow-but his throat felt like it was being crushed by a boa constrictor.

"I guess it makes me experienced."

Irene was about to press her lips to his when a great racket exploded from Sherlock's pocket; a chorus of screeching guitars and a man's straining shout of a voice:

"See the idiot walk-see the idiot talk-see the idiot chalk up his name on the-"

Nearly as swiftly as it erupted, the sound was quelled by a swift sweep of Sherlock's index finger across his phone's screen.

::Irene's not the only one who knows how to change tones on a mobile::

Sherlock grinned madly; John had saved him yet again.

Irene did not look so amused-more than an arm's length of distance between him as the phone sang out once more.

/See the idiot walk-/

:: Do be careful, Lana has insinuated the apartment above that record shop might be somewhat of a S&M dungeon. Snog her, Shag her, do whatever it is that you must to get her out of your system. Just . Be. Careful. ::

She turned away from him-palming a set of glittering keys on a battered old ring which sat on the shop counter.

"Is Doctor Watson quite finished interrupting?" Irene's tone dripped with venom and impatience before the phone sounded a third time.

:: I should also like to inform you that 221b will be occupied for the next several hours. Be a dear and call or text before you try to re-enter the flat this evening. Thanks.::

Sherlock gave a smug snorting laugh-placing his phone back in his trouser pocket.

"I should think he'll be quite busy with your young companion for the better part of this evening." Sherlock sighed.

"Exactly as you wished it, I think."

He noticed Irene was smiling again-standing at the back office door, jangling the keys slightly.

"Clever boy." Her praise was mocking.

"What now then? you've isolated me-hardly defenseless, but none-the-less; I am here in your tart's little shop -hanging on every word."

Irene stalked back towards him-an unfamiliar expression spreading over her face.

"I've begun to understand what it is you want miss adler-what I don't understand is why."  
She stopped abrubtly infront of him.

"I was bored Sherlock-bored until I'd found Jim; the sort of twisted, sick conundrum that can entertain a girl like me for ages."

She ran a finger over his high-sculpted cheekbones-then down the angle of his jaw to the point of his chin.

"Then he gave me you-"

"Gave you me?"

The question was answered with a shattering dissruption of the senses; Irene adler , without telegraphing a single movement-had slapped him so hard accross the face that his eyes dazzled slightly-the room swimming for a moment.

"Ask a lady a question-and you'd better let her finish." She cautioned-her voice low and firm.

Sherlock almost let out a groan.

This: recreational scolding. This is ...stimulating to say the least. What Mycroft would say about our relations with Mummy if he could see this...

"Jim gave me-the ultimate un-gettable-get. The brilliantly bizzare a-sexual Sherlock Holmes."

Irene turned from him-placing a slender gold key in the door's small lockspace.

"Such a virtuoso-all he needs is a firm hand."

There was the popping sound of the lock. Sherlock knew this was the point of no return; if he followed Irene Adler up this set of stairs-there was no changing his mind.

"But WHY?" He pressed, soles still glued to the ground.

"Why is a diamond worth what it is?"

"Toil?" He grunted.

"Rarity and Perfection my dear."

Sherlock's expression betrayed the nascent feeling that he was going to follow this through.

" Because, " Irene began, sliding one of her delicate porcelain hands inside of his, pulling him like a tugboat towards the stairwell.

"I've never had one like you before."

"And you, you'll never have a woman like me ever again."


End file.
